The Exception (66 page)

‘Dennis, it’s for me. Why don’t you run along to play Counter-Strike on your dad’s computer?’

Dennis shouts, ‘Yeaaah!’ and rushes away upstairs. With Dennis out of earshot, she speaks to the caller.

‘What do you want?’

She knows already, of course. He wants what he always wants when he’s in Denmark and has the time.

‘I hate you!’ Camilla shouts. ‘You sold yourself and all your chances in life. Zigic had your name on his list. I know the kind of things you’ve done for him. You’ve worked for him for years.’

He only makes a snorting noise.

It upsets her even more, but she tells herself to remain cool or Dennis will hear her. She musters all her self-control.

‘Dragan, remember that I know you well. I know that you don’t have to be like this.’

‘And you know that I can get into your house any time I like. Or turn up where you work. Camilla, for all you know, I could be in your bedroom now.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘You think that when you say things like that you’ll make me want you. I don’t. It’s no good. I think you’re a loser.’

Dennis is standing in the doorway. ‘Hey, Mum, who are you talking to?’

‘No one special, sweetie.’

‘It’s got to be someone.’

‘Yep, that’s right. Look, why don’t you go out and play ball in the garden?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’d like you to.’

‘Can’t I play CounterStrike now?’

‘No, not any more. Go to the garden.’

‘Aw, Mu-uum.’

Once she is sure her son has gone outside, she whispers into the mouthpiece: ‘I don’t want you any more. You don’t understand me at all.’

Dragan laughs. ‘I’m staying at the Plaza and I’ll be in my room tonight. My name is Guido Pirandello.’

She can see Dennis. He runs up to the window, presses his face against it, grimaces and giggles. She tries to smile back at her little boy and speak to Dragan at the same time.

‘Dragan, I’ll report you. I’ll tell the police where you are. Don’t phone me again!’

She slams the receiver down. Afterwards she collapses on the sofa and cries, listening for Finn or Dennis at the door.

Finn doesn’t return until about an hour later. She hugs him and kisses him warmly. They chat, mostly about the pipes Finn
is supplying for the office kitchen in a large clothing company. She has made fishcakes for supper, served with boiled potatoes and her own home-made sour-cream-and-mustard dressing.

When Finn has helped with clearing the table, they brew a pot of tea and settle down to watch
Good Evening, Denmark
and
News & Views
on the television.

Later on, as she makes her way to the Plaza Hotel, she thinks: He’s the Devil! Her head is full of images of Dragan. I haven’t hated anyone so much since I left school.

She’s told Finn that she’s going over to Vibeke’s to practise a few songs for the choir. ‘You’d better put the kids to bed,’ she told him. ‘I might be a bit late.’

She imagines her children grown up and when they somehow learn what their mother got up to once or twice a year, she can hear them ask, ‘Mum, is it true? When we were little, did you really make love to a murderer?’

As the hotel lift ascends, Camilla can feel her skin crawl as she thinks about her answer.

‘No, no, I didn’t. I’d never do that.’

‘So what did you do together? You were unfaithful to Dad, weren’t you?’

‘Goodness, where do you get such dreadful ideas? I wouldn’t dream of it. How can you? I’m your mother!’

It is half past one in the morning. Iben is leaning against the headboard of Gunnar’s big bed. He is next to her and they are both writing on their laptops. Documents and books are spread all over the duvet. They are both absorbed in what they’re doing, but now and then one of them tells the other about a thought or a piece of text. Or they touch, kiss and wait to see what will happen next.

Quietly, in the light from the bedside lamps, their minds play with each other in a private game they both love. Their bodies are at rest, as if they were floating in a warm swimming pool.

Gunnar’s chest bears a small, pink scar from Zigic’s knife. Iben covers it with her hand, as if she could protect him now, one month too late. Her hand moves on, slips through the hair on his chest and her other hand lets go of a book about the Armenian genocide.

Iben and Gunnar stay awake most of the night, but at DCGI the next morning Iben is bursting with energy. She will always remember Malene and respect her memory, but it’s a fact that the office is running much better without her and there are no more problems with people not getting along. Anne-Lise has flourished in a totally unexpected way and Paul turns up every morning in top form.

Iben’s only worry concerns the Turkey issue of
Genocide News
. It has been a source of anxiety for her ever since she learned, on one hand, that Paul is pretty sure he will be the next head of the DIHR and, on the other, that he is chummy with a representative of the nationalist Danish People’s Party.

All of a sudden Paul whipped the planned Chechnya issue off the schedule, meaning that a study of Christians killing Muslims
went down the tube. Instead all the Centre’s resources are to be brought to bear on Turkey – including how Muslims killed more than a million Christians.

Paul’s stated reason was that Turkey was up for discussion in Brussels. Still, these days no one talks about the genocide carried out by the Turks. Inevitably, the suspicion comes to mind that Paul has made some secret agreement with influential figures in the People’s Party, who are against all immigrants, but the Muslim contingent most of all. They already stopped Ole from firing Paul. Maybe their next move is to install him at the top of the Human Rights Institute?

And, if so, does Iben’s work serve, above all, to fan the fear of Muslims and the growing hatred of them? And perhaps doing her bit to target the large Turkish community in Denmark? Naturally Paul would never tell her so straight out. She has no choice now, except to make the Turkey issue as good and comprehensive as possible, supporting the Centre and the cause in general.

After work she goes to Gunnar’s place. Every second week his daughters are there too. Iben has liked them immensely from the very first time they met. It seems that they like her too. At a stroke Iben belongs to a family – a brand-new one, but a family all the same.

It’s incredible that less than half a year ago Iben and Gunnar met for the first time. At Sophie’s party. Three days later, they both received threatening emails.

She is sitting on the bed in the oldest daughter’s room, listening to music, looking at the girl’s latest download of pop-star photos from the Internet.

When the entry phone rings Iben answers. It is Dorte Jørgensen.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

Iben pulls herself together and smiles, even though no one is there to watch her. ‘Not at all, Dorte. Come straight up.’

All in all, Iben is happy. During the last few weeks she has
discovered how much she’s capable of. Although she’s felt close to the edge once or twice, she’s realised that it’s best to stay in her own flat during those moments. She doesn’t want Gunnar or the girls to notice anything odd about her.

Whenever Dorte turns up, her feeling of being in control begins to slip. Lurking at the back of Iben’s mind is the fear that one of these visits will provoke an anxiety attack – and the agonising fear that she might give things away about herself.

Iben says hello and welcome, calls Gunnar, and offers to make coffee. The daughters wander in too and they all gather round the coffee table. Gunnar’s bloodstained sofa has been thrown out and replaced by Malene’s elegant designer one, which her mother insisted that Iben should inherit although she has no room for it in her flat.

Dorte looks around with an expression that seems to suggest that Iben’s staying here is suspect. Iben serves coffee and asks Dorte what is on her mind this time. They will try to help in every way.

Keeping an eye on Iben, Dorte explains that she has been examining Malene’s confessional letter to Rasmus. ‘Everything about it is consistent with her other letters to Rasmus. With one exception. All the other letters have been saved repeatedly. It seems that Malene was a nervous writer and kept pressing Save every five minutes. But, if you check the Statistics option under File Properties for this particular letter, it has been revised only once.’

‘I see. What does that mean?’

‘The significance is that the letter might have been written by someone else. Not by Malene and, therefore, possibly after her death. It’s easy to add a false Save date.’

‘Really? Do you think …’

‘Well, we’ve been wondering about it. Interestingly, we established that someone did boot up the computer and used it after the police had sealed Malene’s flat.

‘So it could only have been one of you … or …?’

‘That’s always possible, of course. Given that there seems to have been no break-in, it’s the likeliest answer, I suppose.’

Iben feels that she’s still herself. But the girls look worried. Maybe she’s more transparent than she imagines. Iben glances at Gunnar, who understands at once.

‘Hey, it’s time to start fixing supper. Off to the kitchen we go.’

Dorte begins from where she left her interrogation of Iben last time, renewing her verbal attacks from every angle. ‘With regard to the email you received, whoever wrote it called you “self-righteous”. Did that person know you? What do you think?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘You must have an idea? However vague it might be.’

‘Malene has confessed to it, but it’s …’

Iben’s heart is beating hard. The pressure is on now. It will make her focus. Make her mind clear and calculating, like in Kenya. And in Anne-Lise’s house. And when Zigic caught her. I’m changing now, becoming a ‘survivor’, she thinks.

But somehow it doesn’t happen. Is it because Malene is dead? She can’t focus. She cannot save herself.

Dorte continues: ‘Iben, you have to live with your past. Your actions will affect you. And affect your husband too. The first month might be easy for you. And the next one, and the next one – but sooner or later what you have done will catch up with you. Why do you think I’m so certain of that?’

Iben doesn’t want to answer but replies as she must: ‘I don’t know.’

‘Because we’re responsible. We have to take responsibility for what we do. In the end, you alone decide how to act. Look at Malene. No one would have predicted that she’d sacrifice—’

‘Malene was mentally ill. She wrote that herself.’

‘That’s what you say.’

Iben leans back and sighs. ‘I must say, you do check everything thoroughly. It’s very reassuring. I’d be happy to help in any way.’

Dorte nods. Her eyes don’t leave Iben for a second. ‘That’s good to know.’

Iben gets up. She walks over to Gunnar’s wall of pine shelving and then back.

‘Look, would you like to examine my computer? You can look for Rasmus’s spyware, or emailed threats or drafts of Malene’s confession.’

Dorte has it in her to smile at this. ‘Thank you! I’ll accept your offer, thank you.’

‘Your theory is a bit far-fetched, if you don’t mind me saying so. I doubt whether it’s convincing enough to get you a search warrant. I just hope you realise that I’ve nothing to hide.’

‘Of course. Do you use any other computers?’

‘No. I take my laptop to work.’

‘I’ll have to get independent confirmation of that.’

‘I understand.’

Maybe Iben leaves the room a little too eagerly. When she returns from the bedroom carrying the computer, Dorte sounds kind.

‘Both of you must miss Malene a great deal?’

‘Yes, we do. And what she did was extraordinary.’

When Iben hands over the laptop, Dorte produces a CD from her pocket and asks permission to install the useful little search program she has brought along.

Iben agrees, noting that Dorte expected to be given access to the computer.

As they wait, the program searches through the items on the hard disk. Dorte breaks the silence. ‘Do you feel that your work affects you a lot?’

Iben thinks that this might be another attempt to get at her when her guard is down. ‘I don’t know. But we are constantly reminded of how frail the bonds are that restrain our instincts and prevent us from doing terrible things.’

‘Perhaps working day in, day out on such things might blunt your sensibility?’

‘That could be true. Yes.’

The search program has stopped. Dorte keys in a few commands,
narrows her eyes and leans towards the screen.

Dorte had tried to sound casual about the program she ‘had in her pocket’, but Iben quickly spots that the detective is not exactly a computer buff. It could be sheer desperation that made her come this evening. Probably, the consensus back at the station is that the case has been closed ever since Malene’s confession came to light. Dorte won’t have a leg to stand on unless she finds something in the computer. And she won’t.

Iben listens to Gunnar and his children having fun in the kitchen. She feels much better now and returns to the previous subject.

‘… But on the other hand, working at DCGI might have the opposite effect. That is, not to blunt our perceptions, but to make us more appreciative of the lives we’re privileged enough to live.’

Dorte keeps staring at the screen.

‘We have been allowed to believe that an orderly, day-to-day existence and our care and respect for each other are givens. Our work shows us that they are not. It also opens our eyes to the importance of goodness. Precisely because it can vanish so quickly.’

At last Dorte looks up from the screen and states the obvious. ‘Not a trace of anything.’

Just as Iben tells herself that the worst is over, Dorte has another thought.

‘By the way, do you know of anyone who might have a key to Malene’s flat? Or someone who might know the password to her computer?’

Iben must think quickly now. It’s a test. She lifts the lump of orange mineral on the coffee table. ‘Not as far as I know. Malene never told me her password. I didn’t have a key, and I’m pretty sure nobody else did.’